


Amāvāsyā (Moonless Night)

by KatieHavok



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bathing/Washing, Eating, F/M, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Happy Ending, I Blame Tumblr, Magic and Science, Magical Realism, Mild Sexual Content, POV Alternating, Permanent Injury, Physical Disability, Post-Movie 1: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Pretentious, Romance, Second-Hand Embarrassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 09:56:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13785057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatieHavok/pseuds/KatieHavok
Summary: Queenie bursts through the apartment door, hair frizzed around her head in a blonde halo.“I found him,” she says breathlessly, and Tina leaps to her feet to grab her jacket.





	Amāvāsyā (Moonless Night)

**Author's Note:**

> Amāvāsyā is a Sanskrit word that means, in part, _...the first day of the first quarter on which the moon is invisible._
> 
> This story deals with a major character suffering and contending with a life-altering disability, one which magic _cannot_ do much to help. If this is guaranteed to bother you and/or if non-graphic descriptions of head injury puts you off, then I'm afraid this isn't the story for you.
> 
> Dedicated to my real-life friend JSC, who wanted a character to experience what happened to her.

*

A bug lands on the nape of his neck.

Newt reaches up to brush it away, attention focused only on the question he intends to ask Tina that night. Moving his arm throws him slightly off-balance, accustomed as he is to a weight that _isn’t_ there, causing him to stumble into the street. The screech of tires over cobblestones jerks his chin up as the front grill of a delivery truck bears down on him.

_Like being thrown by a Dragon,_ Newt thinks as he sails through the air. He lands with a bone-rattling thump, stars streaking across his vision when the curb fetches against the back of his head hard enough to click his teeth together.

He wants to laugh but his mouth and limbs won’t cooperate, his body suddenly too heavy, too gangly, too uncoordinated. _I’m going to be late to Tina’s,_ he realizes while struggling upright. He tries to blink away the motes dancing before his eyes when a crowd gathers around him, all of them Muggles with concern lining their faces.

“Get back, now!” the driver of the truck barks, and crouches at Newt’s side, his eyes wide. “Hey fella, you alright? You took a pretty good hit!”

“I’m really not sure,” Newt slurs, frowning. “I—I think—”

Whatever he’s trying to say is lost in a dizzying wave of nausea, and he curls protectively into himself when the crowd parts to let a Muggle doctor through.

*

Queenie bursts through the apartment door, hair frizzed around her head in a blonde halo.

“I found him,” she says breathlessly, and Tina leaps to her feet to grab her jacket.

“I _knew_ he wouldn’t stand you up,” Queenie explains as they hurry down the street, her eyes wide. “And you knew it too, once you checked the ship’s registry. He was _here_ and then he wasn’t, and no wizard could tell us anything because they didn’t _know_.”

Putting on a burst of speed, she leads Tina into an alley before pulling her into a quick hug. “It wasn’t because he was avoiding you, Teenie, but because we were _askin’ the wrong people!_ ”

Tina struggles to process her sister’s words as they spin into Disapparition, landing in a hidden alley across from a brick structure she recognizes as a No-Maj hospital. She allows Queenie to pull her to the receptionist, asking after Newt in a firm, confident tone. They’re given directions to his room, and they climb up and up and _up_ until they come to a halt before a splintery door.

“Are you ready?” Queenie asks, nervously chewing her lip.

_No,_ Tina thinks and shoves it open.

*

The first thing he realizes upon opening his eyes is that his head hurts terribly.

Cool fingers curl around his own and a familiar voice speaks low in his ear, startling him badly. “Newt?”

He turns to her, towards where he thinks her face may be, and reminds himself to breathe. “Tina?”

His voice sounds cracked and hoarse, jogging with his frantic heartbeat. He thinks he may have been screaming, though he can’t remember why.

She laughs, but it’s a watery, unhappy sound. “Yeah, Newt. Yeah, it’s me.” She squeezes his hand. “I’m sorry it took us so long to find you. When you didn’t show up that first night, I thought… Well, it doesn’t matter.”

Newt clears his throat roughly. “How long has it been?” he asks, unsure of the passage of time. His head feels too heavy for his neck, and he sighs brokenly while leaning back.

Tina bends over him in a comforting scent-envelope of soap and perfume, her hands ghosting over his shoulders when he turns toward her warmth.

“Three days,” she says as she fluffs his pillow. “Well...closer to four, actually.”

His headache suddenly intensifies, a low rushing sound building in his ears.

“Was my mother here?” he asks, his words little better than a drunken slur. “Did she really say I couldn’t marry you?”

Tina gasps and squeezes his fingers before moving away. “No, I don’t think so,” she says, her voice thick with tears. “You need to relax, Newt. I’ll call someone.”

“I don’t want you to go,” he insists, but the bed lists nauseatingly beneath him, and even the feel of her cool fingers on his cheeks isn’t enough to keep him anchored. _“Tina—!”_

The last thing he knows is Tina shouting for help.

*

It takes Tina three days to work through the bureaucratic red tape and orchestrate his transfer to a magical hospital.

President Picquery is amazingly sympathetic, telling Tina to take as much time off as she needs. The President expedites the transfer orders and sends out her best Obliviators, and Newt even manages a soupy consciousness when they arrive, smiling daffily in Tina’s direction.

Tina holds his limp hand when they move him, using a No-Maj automobile to reach St. Toothaker’s. He’s surrounded by a huddle of Healers and specialists as soon as they arrive, and Tina watches anxiously until one of them gestures her aside.

“When did this happen?” he asks. The healer is a narrow, rat-faced man with kind but worried eyes. Tina takes a calming breath while fingering the shaft of her wand.

“Six days ago,” she tells him, slipping effectively into the mask of an Auror. “The No-Maj doctor and witnesses say he stepped off the sidewalk and was hit by a truck. It didn’t hurt him, but he hit his head on the curb and had a convulsion. _That’s_ how he ended up in the hospital.”

The Healer eyes her cannily. “Did he say anything else? Have you gone back to the scene of the accident to investigate?”

Tina shakes her head. “No. I’ve been too busy trying to get him here from the moment I found out to dig any deeper.”

There’s a sudden flurry of activity behind them, and she watches over the healer’s shoulder as Newt bursts into frantic motion. The apprentices do their best to physically restrain him until he’s immobilized by a curtly-spoken spell.

Tina winces at the sight of his bandaged head rolling loosely on his neck as a battery of diagnostic runes floats over him. “Will he be alright?”

The Healer sighs. “We can’t say for sure, but I _can_ tell you that there’s Dark magic on him, which isn’t unusual for someone in his...profession. It just makes our job more difficult.” He shakes his head. “We’re going to take the bandages off soon, but there’s probably not much we can do this long after the injury.” He looks at her with a dim vestige of sympathy. “I’d recommend you prepare yourself for the worst, Auror Goldstein. Magic _does_ have its limits, and if he’s been in a No-Maj hospital for six days and wasn’t treated right away…”

The Healer walks away, mournfully shaking his head. Tina watches him go before giving a now-unconscious Newt one last, sad look and fleeing.

*

He comes to with a jolt, moaning as pain rolls through his head.

“Easy,” a cherished voice says, and cool fingers slip around to the back of his skull, cradling it gently. “You’ve been talking in your sleep. Try not to move until you feel a little better.”

“You’re here,” Newt croaks, and tries on a weak smile. “I feel better already.”

Tina snorts above him, her hand moving to his shoulder. “If you only knew,” she says dryly and squeezes him. “How do you _really_ feel?”

Newt fingers the edge of the gauze wrapped around his head. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “Everything’s still... _fuzzy_.” Then: “When do the bandages come off? I would like to see your face, Tina.”

He listens carefully when she sighs, the fingers on his shoulders suddenly tense. “Another day or two, and the healers think you’ll be...fine. Just fine.”

She’s lying, and they both know it, but he doesn’t have the strength to confront her about it. Instead, Newt’s callouses rasp loudly when he touches the bandages, which feel nowhere near thick enough to blot out _all_ the daylight, and turns away from her.

*

The bandages come off two days later, and nothing changes.

He can hear Tina weeping outside his door, and Queenie’s soothing murmur as she comforts her. His head throbs like a rotten toothache as he touches his face and eyelids over and over, verifying their solid reality. Pushing his fingertips into his eyes produces no familiar swirls of red-gold, and although closing them is a useless gesture, he does it out of habit anyway.

Tina doesn’t disturb him for the rest of the day. Neither does anyone else.

*

“Watch your step,” Tina tells him while supporting his elbow, a poignant echo of their first meeting.

Newt’s foot casts around for the curb as she grimaces, thankful he can’t see her expression. His hands are still shaky—the healers say the tremor, along with the headaches and dizzy spells may be permanent—as he moves toward her in small, shuffling steps that are nothing like his typically confident gait.

“Tina?”

Jolting herself from her reverie, she gives him the number of stairs before preceding him up them, allowing him this tiny dignity. He needs to stop and catch his breath halfway, and she chokes back tears as she waits, watching him bow his head in defeat.

“I’m sorry,” Newt says eventually, looking curiously small and unanchored without his familiar case at his side. Tina can’t think of anything to say to that, so she remains silent as he resumes his painful progress.

*

The apartment smells of dust and cooking, with a low, underlying odor he recognizes as the visceral scent of _female._

“The layout is exactly the same as last time if you remember,” Tina says, peeling off his jackets. Newt nods while spreading his hands before him, fingers fanned delicately until he encounters the back of the couch. He feels his way around it to sit, sighing as Tina hovers worriedly.

“Newt...do you need anything?”

_Yes: my independence. My case. My steady hands. Everything that’s gone now, in other words._

“No.”

*

Newt had someone to help him with eating at St. Toothaker’s. Now he’s forced to suffer the indignity of searching for his mouth with trembling hands, losing much of his meal in the process. He eventually murmurs a sticking charm with each forkful, using his teeth to snare the food while grimly re-learning the art of eating without the benefit of visual references.

He can _feel_ Tina watching him, though he makes no effort to justify or excuse himself. He sets his napkin aside when he’s finished, more than aware of his stomach’s new intolerance of heavy food and unwilling to risk catastrophic nausea.

Tina cleans up their supper before moving beside him. He’s about to open his mouth and ask what she’s doing when her hand settles lightly on his shoulder. “Would you like to have a bath, Newt?”

A bath sounds _wonderful_ if he’s being honest. The built-in limitations of cleansing and scouring spells and his own erratic consciousness mean he hasn’t had the benefit of soap and water in _weeks_. She squeezes his shoulder reassuringly when he hesitates, and that decides him.

“Yes,” he admits, turning toward her. “As long as I’m not imposing on you.”

She laughs, and he can hear the ever-present tears in her voice. “I promise you, Newt: nothing I offer is an imposition. Now come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Tina steadies him by the elbow when he stands, subconsciously angling his body toward hers. Feather-light fingers touch his jaw, and he leans into the blessed contact until she guides his hand to her shoulder, allowing him to learn the way.

*

Tina tries very hard not to look when she helps him undress.

She is far from innocent, and it isn’t as though she and Newt hadn’t kissed once or twice because they had, yet seeing him like this, pale and weak and vulnerable, freckled skin humping into goosebumps when she takes his arm to help him into the tub, feels almost _profane_.

Newt shivers as he folds into himself, resting his stubbly chin on his knees to breath in shallow, measured pulls. He’s almost translucent against the sterile white tiles of the bathroom, and Tina has to squeeze her eyes shut to calm herself before kneeling at his side.

She pours warm water over his shoulders and back, watching his face all the while. She can see his eyes clearly from this angle, blown pupils all but crowding out their verdant green, fixed and unresponsive when she waves her hand in front of them. Newt blinks, a reflex to the wind on his face and nothing more, and she bites her lip.

The water turns grey as she washes his hair with her own shampoo granules, wincing when she brushes the still-tender, permanent dent in the back of his skull. He swallows hard in response, eyes drifting closed as she scrubs the grime out of the creases of his neck before moving on to his arms and legs and the soles of his feet.

She can’t bring herself to wash below his navel, and she looks away when she passes him the flannel.

Tina rinses him with her wand, and Newt’s hands are tense on her shoulders as she dries him off. “I’m a little dizzy,” he explains hoarsely, face set in apologetic lines.

“That’s okay,” she promises, squeezing his hand, and helps him into his pajamas before guiding him to bed.

*

The next day is a little easier.

Tina wakes him early to feed him a breakfast of eggs and toast. Warm and full and taken care of, with soft fabric against his skin and no pressing concerns, Newt can forget—if only for a little while—his constant sorrow at the loss of his creatures and even his unsteady hands.

“It’s beautiful out,” Tina murmurs thoughtlessly. Newt turns toward where he thinks the sun may be, soaking in its warmth as she holds her breath.

“Yes, it is,” he agrees and reaches for her hand.

*

Newt memorizes the thirteen steps between his bed and the door and quickly learns that he can orient himself if he uses the bedpost as a guide.

It’s another ten steps from his bed to the kitchen table, and twelve from the table to the door. He requires six steps to move from the table to the couch, another six to get to the window, and he can tell the approximate time of day by using the warmth of the glass as his marker: it heats up as the sun moves further west, and cools down rapidly after dusk.

There are forty-nine steps from his bed to the bathroom down the hall, though he still needs to lean against the wall to make that trip.

He comes to know the sound of Tina’s breathing at night and during the day, the subtle difference between when she’s nervous and when she’s relaxed. More intimately, he recognizes the _scent_ of her, feminine and visceral, occasionally metallic-tangy. He learns the unique cadence of her footfalls as she walks, bearing much of her weight on her right foot, and the way she presses her heels down harder when she’s anxious or angry.

The tremble never leaves his hand, and though much of his magic is still fickle and unwieldy (the healers say his issues are likely permanent, most of his magic invested in repairing an injury that will _never_ heal), he relearns how to eat and walk on his own and even how to use a Dicto-Quill, writing by sound and feel.

He still hasn’t sussed out a spell for _reading_ whatever he transcribes, but he works on it every day, in-between meals, trips to the window, and the constant ache of missing his creatures.

It’s not much. It’s not freedom. But it’s something _,_ it’s his _life,_ and he clings to it.

*

Tina comes awake to hard darkness one night, cracking open an eye to find Newt’s bed empty.

She grabs her wand while poking her feet into slippers and pulling on a robe. A quick inventory of the apartment reveals it to be bereft, and she checks the bathroom and hallway before a wintery draft caresses her ankles, making her shiver.

The front door of the brownstone is cracked open, admitting a spill of moonlight. Hesitating for only a moment, she casts a Muffling charm before creeping downstairs, bottom lip firmly clamped between her teeth.

Newt sits on the curb of the silent street, head tipped back and arms wrapped around his knees. He looks ghostly and ethereal in the moonlight, and Tina hovers in the doorway until his voice drifts to her ear.

“You can come join me if you’d like,” he says softly. “I heard you when you reached the landing.”

Tina deposits herself at his side, checking him over rapidly before touching his shoulder. “Why are you out here all alone? Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m perfectly fine,” Newt says in a tight voice. “I suppose I just...wanted to _feel_ the moonlight.” He tips his head further back, sighing raggedly. “It reminds me of my case, you know.”

She smothers a guilty pang while squeezing his arm reassuringly. “We can write to Theseus. Ask him to come visit and bring the creatures.”

Newt shakes his head, angling his face toward her. Moonlight falls into his fixed eyes like quicksilver, and she stares. “It would have to be Mother, since Theseus is far too busy with the Ministry, and I’m not sure…” He shakes his head with a rueful smile. “Her youngest son survived the Great War and world-travel, only to be brought to his knees by a _Muggle automobile_. I’m not entirely sure she could handle seeing that.”

Tina carefully slides her palm over his arm to take his hand, threading their fingers together. “Well, you can’t hide out here forever,” she argues gently. “You’ll have to suffer a visit from them eventually.”

“I’m aware,” Newt whispers and presses his lips into a thin line. “I suppose I don’t wish to be any more of a burden. I’m know how long you’ve put your career on hold for me, Tina, and I—”

She touches his cheek and he snaps his jaw shut, neatly cutting off his words. “You’re not a burden,” she whispers and smiles when he presses his face into her hand. “You’re _not,_ I promise.”

Newt’s fingers delicately feel their way up her arm, landing on her shoulder before cupping her jaw. “I lied,” he admits raggedly. “I really came out here because I was feeling very sorry for myself.” His thumb, still rough with the vestiges of work-hewn callouses, dusts over her cheek. “...I’m beginning to forget what you look like, Tina.”

Tears clog her throat. “I still look like me,” she warbles, covering his hand with her own. “I don’t look any different at all. You’d be disappointed if you could—”

“See you.”

Tina holds her breath when he brings his other hand to her cheek, holding her face delicately. “Yes.”

“Well, I _can’t_ ,” he says, tone suddenly harsh.

His hands fall as if burned, and Newt’s back is rigid as she watches him march up the stairs, confidently navigating them despite the moonless night.

*

Things remain tense between them until Tina moves to resolve it a few days later.

“Newt,” she says from someplace by the stove. He turns his body toward her, listening to her rapid, nervous breathing as she crosses the room in a rustle of skirts. “I’m—Newt, I wanted to apologize for the other night. I—”

He reaches out to her on instinct, brushing the fabric covering her shoulders before slanting his fingers across her lips. “Stop,” he says in a low, firm voice. “You have nothing to apologize _for,_ Tina.”

She shakes her head, her breath warm and humid against his palm when she speaks. “But I do. I was thoughtless with what I said, and I just want you to know that I didn’t mean to be. I’m still adjusting to all this, and I was tired. And yes, I _do_ miss work and I’m not going to lie about it, but being here with _you_ is so much more important right now.” She squeezes his wrist as he holds his breath. “I just wanted you to know.”

Newt cradles her jaw, fanning his fingers over her skin. “I _do_ know,” he whispers, feeling the familiar sting of tears. He cries often now, and not all of it can be blamed on his new normal. “In truth, I’ve never doubted it.”

She nods before leaning forward. He reaches on instinct to steady her when something soft, light, and damp touches his lips. Newt gasps before surrendering to the kiss, his cheeks wet when she finally pulls away.

“I guess we’re both sorry, then,” Tina says in an unsteady voice.

The only response he can manage is to pull her in again, to pluck the unnecessary words from her mouth and replace them with other, more _satisfied_ sounds.

*

Newt begins to take walks during their third month of cohabitation when he’s steady enough on his feet to no longer have to worry about collapsing into a fit.

He counts steps and landmarks as he pushes himself further and further away from the brownstone until he reaches the end of the block and can stand on the corner, feeling the confluence of air currents against his face. New York is a loud and smelly hustle of humanity around him, and he waits until his palms are sweaty, his heart racing with familiar adrenaline before making his careful way back home, stopping once or twice to orient himself with his chosen landmarks.

It takes him a moment to fumble the key in the lock, and he rests his forehead against the double-doors once he’s inside the familiar apartment, breathing in the scent of _home_.

“Newt?” Tina asks from behind him, sounding curious but not particularly concerned as she assembles their lunches: soup and sandwiches judging by the smell, easy enough to eat without visual input.

He goes to her with a smile.

*

Nightmares visit him occasionally. On those nights, Tina slips into his bed to comfort him.

Some mornings, he comes awake before she does, curling into her warmth to stroke her hair until her heart rate changes and she sleepily murmurs his name.

Some mornings, she wakes before he does, and holds him close as he snores into her shoulder.

Some mornings, they wake together, lightly touching through their pajamas as Newt kisses her, his mouth firm but undemanding until they climb, laughing and carefree, out of bed.

*

Newt unhappily touches his stomach, the muscles beneath his fingertips no longer solid and firm, but soft and spongy.

He hears Tina’s approach, smells her perfume when she reaches him. “Are you okay?”

Newt shakes his head miserably. “I’m fat," he says, recognizing that it’s a ridiculous thing to be upset over and not caring. Tina _tsks_ , which only serves to make him feel worse, hiding his face in his hands.

“You really aren’t, though,” she says gently and touches his side. “Your trousers still fit. You just don’t move around as much, and you’re eating regularly. That’s all it is, I _promise_. You look exactly the same.”

Tina pulls him into her arms at his unhappy sound, smoothing a hand over his back when he presses his damp face into her neck. “You’re all right,” she soothes, much as he used to do with his creatures, and holds him as he trembles.

*

Tina takes him for a long walk the following day, accompanying him through the city until his legs tremble with exhaustion before Disapparating them home.

She does it again the next day, and the next, and he smiles and murmurs his thanks over a supper of vegetable stew and bread. His body still _craves_ exercise so he works on rebuilding his muscles every morning: sit-ups, push-ups, and even rigging a pipe to pull himself over to fortify the strength in his back and shoulders.

It helps, and before long his stomach is once again toned and familiar, his body moving together in fluid harmony.

*

Tina wakes him with kisses one morning, and he mindlessly rolls over to press her into the mattress, his hand carving a busy circuit between her hip, stomach, and breast.

She winds her fingers into the flannel of his pajamas as she kisses him, dragging her teeth along his jaw before nipping his neck. “Newt,” she gasps in his ear, and he uses the curve of her cheek as his guide to kiss her again and again, drinking from her mouth until she slips her hands beneath his clothing.

The shock of first contact is enough to jolt them back to reality. They slow their movements until she pushes at his shoulders, urging him off of her. He reclines over the mattress when she reaches for him, the brush of her fingers apologetic. “It’s not that I don’t _want_ to,” she murmurs, “because I do. I’m just not sure this is the best time.”

Newt nods. “Yes,” he whispers, “I understand,” and carefully measures his breathing until she climbs out of bed.

*

It takes him a few months to get the hang of a safety razor, but he eventually learns how to shave his face without injury.

Bathing alone takes a little longer to master, if only because the abrupt sensory shift from warm water to cool air often triggers a migraine. Tina has the idea to put a permanent warming charm on his towels, and words aren’t enough to thank her, though he still tries.

She can’t hide her nervousness when he walks around the block alone for the first time, any more than Newt can help kissing her deeply when he breezes through the door. He can’t see her smile but he can _feel_ it when he cradles her face in his hands, dappling her soft skin with his lips.

“I won’t be a burden _forever_ ,” he promises, and she makes as if to protest until he kisses the urge away.

*

_Summer is back,_ he thinks one morning when the dawning sun is warm on his face.

Tina shifts beside him, burrowing against his shoulder with an unhappy murmur to hide from morning. He grins into her hair while sliding an arm into the notch of her waist, until she sighs his name and lifts her head. His skin warms when she kisses him, slow and deep. He offers no protest when her wondrously steady hands pluck at the buttons on his pajamas, feeling lazy and flush with affection for her.

Newt’s fingers tremble badly by contrast when Tina guides them to the hem of her nightgown, making her intention clear. He uses both hands to peel it off, ghosting over her silken curves until she presses her breasts into his palms.

“Newt,” she says and drapes herself over his chest to kiss him. _“Newt.”_

“Easy,” he murmurs, sliding his hands over her back to her rear, squeezing gently. “We don’t...I mean...Tina, I—”

She kisses him again, bracing against his shoulder when his hands move around to her front. He works his slow way to the juncture of her thighs, rewarded with a hiss when he experimentally cards his fingers through her damp curls before cupping her. She trembles and kisses his temple, her low, breathy voice in his ear.

“Only if you _want_ to,” she tells him, and gasps when he strokes her in answer.

He curls his fingers toward his palm to dip into her moisture, spreading it around. At this moment, Newt’s fleetingly thankful for the near-constant tremor in his hands: it allows him to brush her in ways he wouldn’t be able to otherwise, almost _vibrating_ against her most sensitive spots until her muscles clench and she comes, moaning musically.

Tina lays her head on his chest afterward, sprawling lazily over him. “Thank you,” she murmurs, and though he wishes he could read the expression on her face, he contents himself with stroking her hair.

*

He wakes before her the following morning, kissing her sleeping cheek before carefully extracting himself from bed.

Newt takes a moment to enjoy the early morning solitude, casting a charm to tell him the time while standing at the window to gauge the pulse of the city. It’s early enough to allow him a chance for introspection, and he realizes through a series of slow awakenings that, though his eyes may be useless, the rest of him still _isn’t_ ; Tina would likely appreciate any help he could offer, clumsy though it may be.

It takes him a while to inventory the kitchen, to learn the shape, weight, and scent of common ingredients, but he manages.

He burns his thumb that first morning, making eggs and toast before setting the table. Tina’s happy sigh is more than worth it, and though it isn’t quite the same as feeding his creatures, it helps. Even dishes are easier than he expects, washed the No-Maj way by feel as she dries and puts them away.

She kisses him soundly afterward and takes his arm as they walk through the city, chatting lightly about everything and nothing.

*

Tina takes him to bed two nights later, and his body is a revelation.

He is solid and firm beneath her, touching her in delicate brushes as he maps her skin. Newt sits up to steady her when she pools in his lap, his strong arms holding her close until they tremble together, poised on the edge and ready to fall.

“Yes,” he murmurs when she grasps him, skimming his teeth along her jaw. “Make me _yours_ , Tina.”

They fit together as if they were made for each other.

Tina gasps when she starts to move, delighting in the _feel_ of him as Newt lays them down, his hands all over her, his mouth hot on her skin as sensation builds until she trembles, body clenching rhythmically. She slumps, sighing when Newt wraps her in his arms to chase his own end, teeth bared against her throat until his head rocks back and he groans, filling her with heat.

Tina runs her fingers through his hair afterward, watching his face carefully for any hint of doubt or regret. She finds none, and he holds her close as he closes his eyes, his breath settling into the easy rhythm of sleep.

*

It never gets better, but it does get easier.

Newt finally perfects a charm to narrate letters to him, and suddenly the world is his again: his to reach out and claim, his to own and explore at his leisure. He presses Tina into teaching him the path to the closest branch of the New York Public Library, where he borrows half a dozen books with the promise of returning in a week.

Once home, he barricades himself in the bedroom to get lost in a world not of his own making, if only for a little while. Tina fetches him for supper, and he can hear the smile in her voice when she sends him back with a mug of hot cocoa and a kiss on the cheek.

He wakes some indistinguishable time later to the sound of her light snores, his reading spell having long since dissipated. Yawning, he shuffles down the hall to brush his teeth before stripping and climbing into bed to wrap around her sleeping form.

*

“Do you think you’d be okay alone during the day?” Tina asks one evening over supper.

Newt swallows before taking a long pull of his lemonade. “I think I’d be fine,” he says honestly, “though I’m curious as to why you’d like to know.”

She sighs, and he frowns at the weariness in it before reaching across the table for her hand. She squeezes his fingers reassuringly. “I want to go back to work. It’ll be a year soon, and you’re able to make your way around the apartment and the important parts of the city. You can read and cook and keep yourself occupied, and I…”

He runs his thumb over her knuckles, lips quirking. “You feel like I don’t need you as much anymore,” he says easily, and nods in understanding. Newt carefully pushes his plate aside before threading their fingers together. “Will you still be in the same position? I’m sorry, my only concern is that something will happen and I won’t be able to get to you.”

Tina covers his hand with her own. “I won’t be active in the field nearly as much, and when I am it’ll only be in a supervisory capacity. You don’t need to worry.”

Newt digests this before grinning, squeezing her fingers. “Well, in that case...when do you start?”

*

They are less than a month into Tina’s new schedule when they decide to eliminate the second bed.

“We end up together most nights, anyways,” Tina reasons, and Newt hides his smile while holding out the magically-expanded blankets and sheets. She dresses the larger bed before allowing him a chance to learn his way around it, familiarizing himself with the shape of the posts and its proximity to the other items in the room before collapsing theatrically onto the mattress.

Tina giggles and joins him, meeting him in the middle. She touches his face gently, he moves to kiss her, and before long clothing is shed as they put their new bed to the test, sighs, and moans filling the air until they collapse into a sweaty, sated pile.

“I think I like this change,” Newt mumbles and is rewarded with a languid kiss.

*

Tina wakes one morning with an unpleasant metallic taste on her tongue, her stomach tied into queasy knots.

Her condition doesn’t improve as the day wears on, and by suppertime, she feels listless, wrung out, and pale. She requests that Newt prepare their meal, but the meat and potatoes he sets before her intrigues and disgusts in equal measure until she pushes the plate away.

Worried, Newt insists she go to bed, wrapping around her to soothe the ache out of her tender stomach.

Her condition doesn’t improve the following day or the next, and within a week she’s unwell enough to attract attention at work. Her boss sends her home with an admonishment to rest, and Tina is too tired and achy to protest. Newt greets her at the door, his face arranged into worried lines as he takes her jacket.

“What could it be?” he wonders aloud later, nuzzling her neck as she reclines against him. The fire burns low as he nurses a glass of whiskey that smells much more pungent than usual. She can taste it on his tongue when she kisses him, not unpleasant. It isn’t until he gently hefts her breast that realization comes to her.

“Oh,” she breathes, and he goes still before cocking his head. “Oh, _no._ ”

_“Tina—?!”_ Newt asks in alarm when she launches herself off the couch, but she’s too busy heaving wretchedly into the sink to pay him any mind.

*

“This is my fault,” Newt tells her some nights later, carefully kissing the top of her head as he strokes the achy plane of her stomach.

Tina rolls in his arms with a low hum, burrowing into his chest. “It’s _both_ our fault,” she argues with a yawn. “We knew this could happen. We just...forgot.”

“Yes,” he acknowledges bitterly, hands going still. “And now I’ve placed _another_ burden on your shoulders, just when you were regaining your freedom.”

Tina laughs, though it’s a damp sound. “It’s not really a question of freedom, is it?” she asks ironically. She shifts to kiss his cheek forgivingly. “Besides, he who dances must pay the fiddler. We just happen to be paying twice, is all.”

Stunned, Newt pulls her into his arms to bask in her happy glow. “Well,” he says, and pauses. He can’t think of anything else to say to that, so he kisses her lips before gently soothing her to sleep.

*

It’s the question he had meant to ask at the beginning that brings him around to the end.

Newt waits until Tina is off to the market, for once feeling well and mostly herself despite the daily changes to her body, before digging through the hidden compartment in his coat. He finds what he’s searching for easily, and though he can no longer see the elegant sapphire or the gleaming platinum, he can feel their reassuring weight in his hand and in his waistcoat pocket when he stashes it for later.

He tugs on his favorite coat before navigating the hallway and stairs with practiced ease. The landlady calls a polite greeting which he returns as he posts his letter to Mother, careful to keep his face angled away from her—more than aware of the effect his unusual eyes have on the unsuspecting—before perching on the top step of the brownstone.

New York wheezes and bustles with vitality around him: here, the cry of a baby; there, the pungent exhaust of a delivery truck. He takes it all in, hearing, tasting, smelling and feeling the pulse of the city he’s taken for his own, and, smiling, tips his face toward the sun while waiting for Tina to return, a single question heavy on his lips.

*

**Author's Note:**

> The tremors and migraines are symptoms of a traumatic brain injury, as well as Newt's blindness. Brain swelling caused by an injury puts pressure on the nerves that supply visual information to the brain and essentially strangle it out. This can and does happen every day, all around the world, in real life. I've built _this_ story upon the hypothesis that this injury would _typically_ be mitigated in a magical hospital, but because Newt languished under No-Maj care for three or four days, he simply didn't receive the magical cure in time. Once nerve damage is done, that's it—there's no going back.
> 
> Sharp-eyed readers will note that the issue of Newt learning how to read without magical assistance (i.e. learning Braille) never came up. This was something I wrestled with for a while but in the end, decided that he wouldn't really consider Muggle/No-Maj means until all other _magical_ possibilities had been exhausted. Also, the now-recognizable white-and-red cane that the visually-impaired use for navigation didn't come into use until the late 1930s. Prior to that, a black cane held diagonal across the body was the norm. Newt, being a wizard who is used to adapting to extreme circumstances, may use this method or rely on the added compensation of his other senses to navigate. I've left it intentionally vague to allow you, the reader, to be the judge.


End file.
